


sweet music playing in the dark

by apolliades



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Affection, Anal Sex, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Communication, Crying During Sex, Established Relationship, Explicit Consent, Fluff and Smut, Healing Sex, Laughter During Sex, M/M, Memories, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Civil War (Marvel), Post-Coital Cuddling, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Top Steve Rogers, as in emotionally nothing weird, but with a BIT of plot, tagging this made me feel like i need to be re-baptised :/
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 08:33:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17484755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apolliades/pseuds/apolliades
Summary: Steve and Bucky have sex for the first time since they found each other again.





	sweet music playing in the dark

It isn’t anything unusual for them to lie awake together, neither sleeping nor talking, just being beside each other in the dark. The stillness and peace of it is good, and they are both of them slowly relearning how it feels to be together without any sense of threat. To accept that whole nights will pass like this, safe, quiet, uneventful, with no cruelty to interrupt them, no threat to rise with the sun and darken their mornings.

Lying on his side, Bucky watches the slow, even swell of Steve’s chest, the blanket shifting fractionally where it embraces his ribs. Steve watches him watching. 

“You alright?” he asks, eventually. He lays his hand palm up between them, so Bucky can take it if he wants to.

He does. “Mm,” he says, making a circle in the centre of Steve’s palm with his thumb. It’s quiet again for a minute or two, then Bucky wets his bottom lip. “Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“D’you wanna have sex?”

Steve blinks at him, his eyebrows lifting. Bucky sucks his lip between his teeth, worries at it, but doesn’t break his gaze. It isn’t often he gets to take Steve, who knows him so well it feels sometimes as though he could speak Bucky’s thoughts aloud to him if he wanted, by surprise. He enjoys the look of it on his face when he can.

“Do you?” Steve says, when Bucky is almost on the point of repeating himself.

“Yeah. I mean, I think so. I’d like to try.” Being touched has become easier, with time — it has been a long, slow process, but Steve can put his arms around him now without Bucky’s every muscle seizing. Bucky can tip back his head and let Steve press his mouth to his throat without the fear that his teeth are poised to break his skin. He can kiss Steve’s hands without guilt making them shake. Most days, at least. Bad ones come still, now and then; sometimes the slam of a door is enough to make either one of them break into cold sweat. But most days, they’ve stopped asking permission before they touch one another. The need has mostly passed. Bucky runs his thumb over Steve’s soft wrist. “We used to be— pretty good at it, as far as I remember.”

Colour seeps across Steve’s face like a sunset, clear even in the low light. He closes his eyes a moment, and Bucky wonders what exactly he’s remembering, to make his breath quiver like that. “Pretty good, yeah,” he says, opening his eyes again. The way he’s looking at Bucky is different, now. Subtly so, but enough for him to notice. His stomach tightens.

“Do you want to?” he asks again, pressing Steve’s hand gently.

His hesitation is touching; the care he takes in everything, his consideration for Bucky’s limits, which have at times been painfully restrictive. Not once has Steve pushed him for more than he could handle, and Bucky can see it in his eyes even now, that deep-rooted, guilt-stained concern. It clouds his face a minute, makes him hold back from answering.

“I want to,” Bucky assures him, and kisses his knuckles. “If you do.”

Steve’s fingertip catches his lower lip, drags over the warm damp inside. The look in his eyes is so intense, Bucky is almost desperate to know how it would feel on him without the restraint Steve still so carefully exercises. “You’ll tell me, if it’s too much? If you want to stop?” There’s a breathless quality to his voice, rougher than before, that makes Bucky’s insides tense again. Heat in his belly.

“Of course.”

“Promise?”

“Steve, for chrissake. Yeah, I promise.”

With all the care in the world Steve strokes Bucky’s hair back from his brow, tucks it behind his ear. Then he kisses him with a heat that smoulders. Slow and heavy, opening his mouth in a way that makes Bucky’s follow, so his tongue can slip smoothly behind his teeth. They haven’t kissed like this in a long time. Christ, they haven’t kissed like this since it was legal. That long, but it’s keenly familiar, the press of Steve’s tongue in his mouth, the sting of his teeth in his lip; his body remembers, and remembers how to respond. Bucky’s fingers curl around Steve’s wrist.

 

The last time had been quick and furtive in a cold damp tent pitched in the middle of some nowhere, some field churned into mud, knowing it was a stupid risk but knowing too that they could die tomorrow and never get the chance to take such a stupid risk again. Bucky’s teeth had dug a bruise into Steve’s shoulder in his fight to keep quiet; he’d kissed it better after, promised to do so every time he saw it till it healed. Close quartered under the tarpaulin they’d clutched each other with the knowledge that it could well be the last time but still not quite believing, never quite believing that it would. Bucky had fallen to his death with faded imprints of Steve’s hands still on his hips. 

 

Steve asks Bucky if he wants to lie on his back, is it okay, and Bucky laughs, breathless from being kissed and overcome with affection. No one has ever loved anyone like Steve Rogers loves him, he thinks, and the flicker of guilt that comes with it is doused by Steve’s mouth at the corner of his own. 

He lies back, and when Steve follows Bucky braces himself to feel trapped, threatened by the weight of him above him, but the fear doesn’t come. They kiss for an age, for so long they begin to forget how it feels to do anything else. Bucky’s hand is at the back of Steve’s neck; his heel slides up the back of his thigh; Steve makes a soft sound into Bucky’s mouth and his fingers nudge under the hem of his t-shirt. Steve moves to suck at the side of Bucky’s throat and his head drops back, his breath comes too hot to swallow, his hips lift —

“Wait.” He flattens his palm against Steve’s chest.

Steve stops still instantly, like a switch flicked. Concern on his face that Bucky longs to smooth away. “What is it? You okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, sweetheart, just— would you put the light on?” He touches the side of Steve’s face, shadowy in the dark. “I want to see you properly.”

He feels the heat of Steve’s blush under his fingers, his bashful smile beneath his thumb. “Oh. Sure, yeah.”

When Steve moves away to reach the lamp Bucky sits up a little, props himself against the headboard. Leaves his legs apart for Steve to slot between when he comes back.

“Goddamn,” Bucky says, when Steve kneels between his thighs. His mouth is the colour of wine, his cheeks only a shade lighter, his hair a mess already from Bucky’s fingers. His eyes are dark, but his smile is warm. He strokes the back of his knuckles gently over Bucky’s neck — it feels tender, he must have left a mark already. “You’re so hot.”

“Shut up,” Steve says, laughing.

Bucky takes a fistful of his vest, tugs. “You are.” Steve lifts his arms, lets Bucky drag the vest off him; Bucky presses his palm to the swell of Steve’s chest, runs it flat to his stomach, feels the flutter of his breathing. “Jesus. You’re so fuckin’ hot.” He sounds like a teenager, he’s aware of this, but he can’t help it. It’s just true. Steve is heart-stoppingly, head-spinningly beautiful. Bucky grips him by the waist and leans in to mouth at his collarbone; Steve sits admirably still and lets him, even though Bucky can feel him shaking, and his breath catches when Bucky’s tongue brushes his nipple.

“Yeah, well,” he says, shakily. His hand is light on Bucky’s shoulder, fingers curling and uncurling in the collar of his t-shirt. “That’s— science for you, ain’t it.”

Bucky kisses beneath his jaw. “No, Steve, that’s _you._ You’ve always—” His hand maps the smooth hard expanse of Steve’s stomach, the muscles there tense to the point of trembling. Steve is holding back from him still, and Bucky understands why, loves him for it, even though he wishes he didn’t have to. “—always been gorgeous, you idiot.”

Steve laughs breathlessly. “The extra hundred fifty pounds helps, though, right?”

“Shut up,” Bucky says, and bites Steve’s lip so he can’t argue.

They fall back together, Steve’s mouth chasing Bucky’s as he sinks down into the pillows again. Steve asks can I? with a handful of Bucky’s t-shirt in his grasp and yes, of course, please do. Steve’s turn, now, to tell Bucky just how beautiful he thinks he is. Bucky doesn’t have it in him to argue in the same way, and then when Steve’s mouth meets his chest he doesn’t have it in him to say anything at all; his breath leaves him, his eyes close, Steve kisses every inch of him with his hands at the small of his back, pressing him up against his lips. He feels Steve shift lower — his ribcage is between Bucky’s thighs, moving shallowly with his breathing. His teeth graze his hip and Bucky jolts.

“Alright?”

Bucky lifts his head from where it had fallen back, finds Steve looking up at him, so earnest in his worry that it aches. “Yes,” he breathes. He unclenches his fingers from the sheets and strokes Steve’s hair back from his brow. “Sweetheart.”

Steve nods, unsteady. His fingers curl around the waistband of Bucky’s sweatpants. Bucky’s stomach is full of fire. “Can I?” Steve asks.

“You don’t gotta ask.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Alright, alright. Yeah, baby. You can.”

He lifts his hips and Steve slips his sweatpants off, following them with his palm down the length of Bucky’s legs, then back up with his mouth, with reverence pressing his lips to Bucky’s ankle, the crook of his knee, the inside of his thigh so sensitive it sets him trembling. Steve kisses the hot sweat-damp join where his thigh becomes his hip and Bucky groans, squirming.

“You’re killin’ me, baby,” he murmurs, and feels Steve smile against him. He kisses the base of his cock and Bucky makes a sound like he’s been hit. It’s an electric shock; his stomach twists. “Jesus. Steve. Baby. Please, you’re— oh, fuck.”

 

The first time had been when they were teenagers, clueless and nervous but desperate for each other; they made a secret place for themselves in Bucky’s bedroom, in the scant hour between school letting out and his mother coming home. Wedged a chair beneath the doorknob just in case. Kissing up against the wall, Bucky’s hands on Steve’s face, Steve’s on Bucky’s wrists, then on his chest, then up under his shirt. Then Steve was on his knees, and Bucky was seeing stars. It hadn’t lasted long — he’d been eager and young, and caught off guard. He hadn’t really known, before then, that it was possible to feel like that. To go blind with pleasure. His legs had just about given way beneath him, but the moment he recovered he’d been all but dragging Steve to the bed, narrow and rickety as it was, dying to make him feel that good, too.

 

Steve is agonisingly good with his mouth. He always has been — when they were younger he’d argued that it wasn’t as though they had anything to compare with, but since then Bucky has had precisely two other people put his cock in their mouth - as far as he can remember, at least, and he doesn’t care to think about what he might not - and neither has come anywhere close to making him shake like Steve can.

Like he does now, a hand heavy on Bucky’s hip which twitches and strains, the other curved around the top of his thigh, fingers pressing in. Steve does this with a kind of singular focus, with his eyes closed, as though making Bucky all but weep with the feel of it is his sole purpose. He breathes steadily through his nose, Bucky can feel the heat of it tickle his skin, and sucks him down so far he can feel his throat work when he swallows.

“Steve,” he chokes out. Steve hums with him still in his mouth. It rattles through Bucky’s body, knocks the air out of him, brings his hips up off the bed. Steve moves with him, doesn’t miss a beat. “Baby, oh, god, stop.”

He does, instantly, and Bucky almost regrets it as the soft heat of his throat leaves him. Looking up, his mouth red, his chin wet, his eyes dark, Steve is an angel. His voice is raw. His forehead creases. “What’s wrong?”

Bucky’s hand shakes as he smoothes the line between Steve’s brows with the pad of his thumb. “Nothing. Jesus, nothin’s wrong. I just—” he feels his face heat. “I ain’t gonna last two minutes, with you doing that.”

“So?” Steve asks. His fingertips stroke Bucky’s thigh softly.

“So!” Bucky laughs, can’t help it. “I don’t want— I don’t wanna come yet.” He wets his lips; his mouth is a little dry. “I want you to fuck me.”

Steve looks at him for a long moment.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says at last. Quietly.

Bucky makes a face. “I ain’t a virgin, Steve.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

“You won’t hurt me.”

“What if I do?”

“Then I’ll tell you. And we’ll stop.” He watches Steve consider, his lip between his teeth, his eyes on Bucky’s face, so serious. He wants to say yes, Bucky can see it. Can feel it, in the way his fingers are pressing again into his thigh. He knows how Steve looks when he wants him. Hasn’t forgotten that.

After what feels like so long Bucky is starting to ache, Steve nods. Just with that, anticipation rushes hot into Bucky’s chest, turns his insides to liquid. Steve presses his face into his thigh and kisses him there and Bucky’s cock jumps; Steve drags his tongue the whole length of it and makes him whine.

“You wanna turn over?”

Bucky shakes his head. “I want to see you.”

“Good. Me too.”

Steve keeps his eyes on Bucky as he puts his fingers in his own mouth to make them wet, as he traces them along the seam of Bucky’s ass slow enough he can’t actually be sure whether Steve is being careful or just teasing him. Bucky remembers that he used to, often, used to drive him half crazy with it, flirting around what Bucky wanted until he was cursing him and swearing he wouldn’t put out again if Steve was going to be like this — Steve would laugh and say he was sorry, like he really meant it, bury his face in Bucky’s shoulder and tell him he loved him while he made him forget he’d ever been mad at all.

Spit isn’t really enough, but they’ve made do before, and Bucky isn’t willing to wait to look for anything better. Steve would be, that goes without saying, but Bucky is impatient, giddy, the feeling in his gut almost like nausea. Inside him Steve’s fingers are thick and careful, familiar like muscle memory. He clenches and grunts; Steve murmurs to him softly, runs his palm over the plain of his stomach, soothing.

When Steve rises to his knees to shuck his sweatpants off Bucky stills him, just for a moment, hand over his.

“Let me,” he rasps, mouth dry with panting. Steve drops his hand. Bucky traces his fingertips over the outline of Steve’s cock, heavy and hard and leaking against the fabric, and he buckles as if with a blow. It isn’t fair he’s gone untouched this whole time. Bucky grips him through the material, rubs his thumb lightly over the damp patch; he watches Steve’s fingers curl, his jaw clench, his lashes flutter.

Bucky takes his hand away, licks his thumb, and Steve groans like he’s in pain. Bucky has mercy. He jerks Steve’s sweatpants to his knees, puts his hand on the small of his back and urges him closer.

“It’s alright,” he murmurs, when Steve looks at him with hesitance even now. They’re nose to nose, Bucky’s thighs either side of Steve’s waist, Bucky’s back bowed, his hand over Steve’s to guide him in. There’s pain, just a little rush of it, there always is. It fades into the sound of Steve’s low rapturous exhale, into the softness of his mouth on Bucky’s, the heat between their hips as they meet.

Bucky comes first. It feels new and familiar at once, the way his stomach twists, his chest fills, his legs set up shaking and won’t stop. His toes curl; his nails dig into the strong muscle of Steve’s shoulder; and he sobs as the tension breaks. He can feel Steve’s eyes on him, knows he’ll be worried, kisses him wetly along the side of his face, whispering I’m alright, I’m alright. Threads his fingers into Steve’s hair. I’m alright. C’mon, baby. I want to feel you come.

The way Steve says Bucky’s name when he does is like a prayer, awestruck. Bucky unsticks his face from the crook of Steve’s neck, puts his hand on Steve’s jaw to look at him; he wants to see that look on him, open mouthed and overflowing with disbelief and love. It’s been so long, and it’s so beautiful. They kiss fiercely as he comes down, wet with sweat and tears.

It stings a little when Steve pulls out, but only a little, he’s so careful. Bucky just hums softly, his arm around Steve’s neck and his head heavy back against the pillows.

Steve kisses his cheek sweetly, whispers to him softly. “Are you gonna fall asleep?”

“Probably,” Bucky mumbles back, eyes closed, smiling.

“That’s bad manners,” Steve tells him. Bucky feels his hand on his brow, smoothing back his hair.

“Maybe I’m a bad manners kinda guy.”

Steve’s soft low laughter rumbles through them both, from the way they’re lying squashed with Steve half on top of Bucky still, legs threaded together. The weight doesn’t frighten him. It comforts, warms. He knows he isn’t trapped.

“You wanna clean up?” Steve asks, nose against Bucky’s jaw.

Bucky curls his arm tighter around his neck. “No.”

“We’ll regret it in the morning.”

“I don’t care.”

Steve doesn’t argue. He must feel as heavy as Bucky does, like the mattress beneath them has its own force of gravity ten times stronger than that of the Earth. It’s good to feel tired like this, though. Exhausted not by fear or fight but by loving with every ounce of energy in him until there’s none left.

“You sure you’re alright?” Steve asks, after a while, when Bucky is almost out. He’s dragged the blanket up over them so they don’t get too cold as the sweat dries on their skin, but that’s as far as Bucky would let him move.

He opens his eyes with great effort. Steve is watching him closely. He looks more awake than he should, after that.

“You don’t gotta worry so much, Stevie,” Bucky tells him gently. Rubs his shoulder with his thumb. “I ain’t that fragile anymore.”

“I know.” Steve doesn’t sound all that sure, but that’s alright. He will be, in time.

Bucky cranes his neck to kiss him on the mouth. “You taste like me,” he murmurs, and licks Steve’s bottom lip. It makes him smile.

“I missed it,” Steve admits, and kisses him again. Bucky hums, content, closes his eyes.

After a moment: “Goodnight,” Steve whispers, breath warm by his throat. “Sweetheart.” 

 

In the morning the sun rises over them bright, warm, and harmless.

**Author's Note:**

> i just wanted steve & buck to have some emotional, communicative, loving sex so i wrote it. hahhhah. it ended up cheesier and fanfic-trope-ier and less realistic than i set out to make it but what can you do. i'm trying to be okay about it. hope you enjoyed anyway :--) please feel free to comment i am a very nervous little bastard.
> 
> title from almost (sweet music) by hozier cos it's what i had on repeat while writing this


End file.
